This according to the United States Running Streak Association, a demented bunch that recognizes Covert's as the longest active streak.

Decades of braving elements, injuries and fatigue. Close encounters with cars, canines and hornets.

For what?

The reasons are myriad. Health and fitness, the endorphin rush and spiritual awakening to name a few.

Ah, but when do dedication and discipline morph into obsession? And when does obsession become folly?

Typing one-handed, modeling a hospital gown straight out of GQ and awaiting the pain meds to hit overdrive, methinks I have some insight.

Now I have long been a klutz. A faceplant into cement stairs sent my baby teeth flying. Tripping over a garden hose broke my left foot.

With that history, you'd think I would have known better than to run in this weekend's snow and ice.

Uh, no.

As Dad often remarked when report cards arrived, "How is it that you pass math and English but flunk common sense?"

Somewhere in the heavens he voiced that sentiment again Sunday morning when I fell running.

Fractured arm.

Wounded pride.

Hadn't hurt that much since a Novocain shot in the left foot.

Haven't been this sore since a Virginia Tech basketball player — one of the Jackson brothers — hurdled press row during a 1996 game at George Washington and knocked me straight back, smacking my head against the floor.

Haven't been this red-faced since Bucknering a ground ball to first in a youth baseball playoff game.